The Arkansaw traveler., 1887-07-09
A LOST AUTHOR.

Mrs. Myra Vaughan, in Little ROCK Oazette. must confess l read newspaper poetry, and as consequence often find "a gem of purest ray serene" Im- pelled by this habit, l read poem entitled "The Isle of Long Ago" in vour paper of March 8, 1887. "oh wonderful stream is the River of Time" was the first line, and I stopped, as these familiar words thrilled through my memory, and picture rose before my eyes of girl at an open window with copy of "The Land We Love- before her grooming these words over and over and thinking them very bcau tiful.
 Some lines at the head of the poetry had been overlooked. l now turned to them and read
 .'Though Benjamin F. Taylor, who died last week, was a voluminous writer, he will be best remembered by his poem, entitled, The Isle of Long Ago. which is marvel of musical versification, and which is herewith reproduced"
 I had expected to find clew to the familiarity of the words. Somewhere in the palimpset of memory little edge turned up and whispered to me, ''the poet who wrote those lines was long since dead when you first read those words" Then another lifting of the thin veil and I knew it was a southern writer's name to whom those words belonged by the divine right of authorship.
 A few numbers of "The Land We Love" were still in my possession. knew had saved the one containing this poem for its sake alone. A few moments search brought the volume to the light, and in the very first number of the magazine, bearing date of May, 1866, 1 found the desired poem. Here is fdc simiie of page 43:
 SOUTHERN LYRICS."
 The first three pieces are from the pen of Philo Henderson, who was born near Charlotte, Mecklenburg county, North Carolina, and who died in early manhood, leaving large number of unpublished poems of rare value be- hind him.
 
 Oh! a wonderful stream is the river of Time, As It runs through the realm of tears, With faultless rhythm and musical
 rhyme
 And broader sweep and a surge sublime, And blends with the ocean of years. How the winters are drifting like flakes of And the summers like buds between, And the ears in the sheaf-so they come and On the rivers breast, with it's ebb and flow; AS it glides in the shadow and sheen. There's magical isle Tn the river of Time, Where the softest of airs playing; There's cioudless sky and tropical cline, And song as sweet as vesper chime
 And the Junes with the roses are staying. And the name of this isle is Long Ago.
 And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of
 snow,
 There are heaps of dust-but we loved them There are trinkets and tresses of hair. There are fragments of song that nobody And a part of an infants prayer; Theresa lute unswept, and harp without There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments she used to wear.
 By the image is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear through the turbu
 lent roar,
 Sweet voices heard Tn the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair. Oh! remembered for aye be that blessed isle, All the day of life till night; When the evening comes with its beautiful
 smile,
 And our eyes are closed to slumber awhile Ma! that greenwood of soul be in sight,
 This is MT. Henderson's poem. will now give Benjamin F. Taylor's:
 1.-THE ISLE OF LONG AGO" Oh, a wonderful stream IS the River of Time As it flows through the realm of years, With faultless Thy thm and a mu sical Thy me- n A Aars and arlhI